Define
by NowWeOwnTheNight
Summary: Stiles and Claudia played a game to extend Stiles' vocabulary- they'd rattle homonyms and definitions of random words. Now, the dam broke with 'reclining your body in a horizontal position' and Stiles is getting on everyone's nerves, in the best way possible, adding definitions into wildly inappropriate situations. John couldn't be happier. [Whole lot of stupid in this, be ware]


The doctors say words he doesn't understand- like Frontotemporal Dementia and Atrophy- but then they say things like 'critical' and 'too far gone' which frighten him; because those words he does understand. Critical: at the point of crisis, potential disaster.

"Stiles… dear."

"Mum?" He felt absent, mesmerized by the gradual ebb and flow of her heart rate. It formed mountains, hiking, the climbs diminishing and slowing, tiring out, weakening in ways that passed over Stiles' head. He saw the jagged, bold peaks becoming withered hills. "What, mum?"

"How would you define led?"

"A pencil of lead? Plumbum?" They chuckled like broken cobwebs on a caressing updraft, as his mother had described his giggles once before.

"That's-" Claudia broke off into a bought of coughing, waving off the concerned doctors crowding to the door. She gathered herself together. Petting his head with feeble and shaking hands as if in a final effort to comfort her distraught son, she gasped "Ok, dear…" with the raspingly creaked voice of a far older woman. Settling his chin on the bedside table, he traced his mother's sickly complexion alive and glowing golden in the lamplight.

"Why? How would you define led?"

"To follow, to be drawn into something. Say, a close friend's arms, or a comforting, white light."

"How is white light comforting, mum?" He asked, quietly, as her eyes fell closed after a few aborted flutters of eyelashes. "It's so icky. Reminds me of hospital." He looked purposefully to the corridor and its unearthly luminosity from fluorescents and gross, green exit signs.

His mum exhaled once, a measured sigh, and murmured happily: "You just need the right person to be in the lead." Time stood still, frozen, resumed at glacial pace.

A high pitched ringing echoed in Stiles' ears- not a scream… not a car siren outside -and he knew this time he hadn't imagined it; if the flat line on the monitor was anything to go by. The world went up in flames. His beloved mother was gone, this time gone for certain. It was over. Their vocabulary games, the ones his dad chuckled at endlessly, developed a passive hatred towards them as they became associated with happier times. Nothing could've stopped a slow burn in the same way that Stiles hardly held back the burning tears- dripping down off his chin, onto the floor where the bed had been minutes ago.

His dad would be along shortly.

Much later, wrapped up in his father's arms, Stiles dared to reflect on the last words that he alone was privy to. 'The right person in the lead', in the pursuit of comfort. He was content currently, in his father -John's- arms. But he didn't know what she was following into the light- a voice, an apparition? Could it have been Stiles' own voice, driving her into the blinding whiteness, leading her unseeingly?

He was the one there, the one seeing her off. Or driving her off? Waving goodbye as she sailed for Grey Havens, sending her off to the stars to live among them once more as dust. So of course he blamed himself. Who else was there to blame? Dad had said there was always someone, something, at fault to cause an incident.

If he knew one thing with certainty: it was the happiest he'd heard his mother sound in months- being led away from Stiles, and into the light.

The call came in on Wednesday afternoon, informing John Stilinski on his son's absence from school that. day. The text pinged a few minutes after bell time, claiming to be at a warehouse some ten miles out of the Beacon Hills border. The Sheriff was not impressed in the least to see Stiles smiling good naturedly as he parked the car beside a rundown, mid-nineteenth century brickwork factory.

"You weren't allowed to be there." The Sheriff bit out, more than a little pissed about finding his son on private property. Again. For the fifth time that week. It wasn't Stiles' fault that his best friend was a werewolf and tugged the proverbial lead at full strength, uncaringly dragging Stiles on his belly behind him; scrabbling to stand and keep up.

"Oh, allowed? Really? And how- huh –how would you define allowed?" Stiles gulped his way through the sentence, unsure of where he stood. In terms of both the illegal wandering and the unspoken emotions that the definition-stating game held.

John fought between smiling wryly and yelling at his son about the laws of prohibited areas. Neither relieved nor angry: surprised nor underwhelmed. There could be hurt feelings, unwanted memories that surround his wife- her death. But, there was also a chance for them to start their own individual 'bonding game' or whatever it should be classified as. He had no idea how it worked, between Stiles and Claudia. All he remembered was their arguments over the definition of a word. Homonym battles; the opposing dual of a talentedly literate, fluently prosed woman, versus a five year old with mashed potatoes all over his face. He revved the motor a few times, stuck in third gear, and, mustering the straightest face he could, responded curtly.

"I would define allowed as a consensual word, giving someone a right or ability to something. How would you define it?"

"Aloud. An action, or word, that gives off multiple large vibrations and is perceived by the ears as a very loud-" He didn't get to finish. John dialed the radio up to drown out Stiles' voice. Half a minute later, his phone buzzed with a text:

I'll take that as point to me?

John slapped his son around the ears, swerving dangerously off the road.

"Fucking ads." John flicked through channel after channel, resolutely not looking at his son. Stiles was curled up on the couch texting expertly; responding to a blip that indicated replies with a scandalous gasp, bought of side-splitting laughter, or a high pitched 'awww, that's adorable!'

"Adze. An ancient axe for shaping wood, similar to a scythe." Stiles shot over the top of his phone. John could have said a number of things, ranging from 'you sexting your boyfriend? That Hale kid?' to 'shut your piehole'.

Neither of them said anything when John got up, armchair squeaking in protest, and trod silently to his room. When Stiles stopped by to check on him, he had to carefully pry the battered photo of his mother from his father's twitching fingers. At a second thought, he leant down and pressed a fleeting kiss to his father's temple before immersing himself in the world of human-werewolf relationships; and where the line of bestiality was drawn. Web history is a bitch- and John believed that Stiles and Scott had entered a more-than-friends relationship. He was fine with that, accepting, waiting for Stiles to come to him about it on his own. One thing he was not fine with was the two littering skittles all over the house during a playful cat-and-mouse based on whoever had the packet.

For a Monday night, the store was more crowded than an equal rights protest. John Stilinski pardoned and excused his way to the grocery section where traffic was less heavy and he felt less akin to a cattle trudging to slaughter. He rifled through the salads, tested the avocados, picked out perfect bananas. Stiles plucked grapes in his impatient pacing, back and forth and back and forth- whistling nonchalantly –pretending that he hadn't noticed a shelve stackers glare. As he went, he'd toss them over the fruit and vegetable stands; whooping when they landed in their trolley: swerving and changing his course when he misfired and hit someone. John did as all good fatherly figures do and ignored the attention-seeking child until they stopped. Just because Stiles was in his late teens didn't mean he was unable to benefit from a little ignoring.

They met back up at the 'roots' aisle, pondering on what kind of potato to buy. Stiles huffed, just as tired as his father. Following a stressful field day, a close call with some psychopathic murderer who targeted owners of kittens, all the Stilinski men wanted to do was flop on the couch and kill a few episodes of Black Books.

"God, I'm beat." John yawned, and almost missed the smirk his son shot him. Stiles sidled over to the other side of the shelves and returned with a purple-ish vegetable. John shrugged, and went back to observing potatoes until Stiles whacked him on the arm with the vegetable.

"Beet." He smiled at his dad, obviously daring him. When John flinched, a sudden jolt of his arms to grab at the beetroot, Stiles giggled gaily and ran off to supposedly return the vegetable to its proper place.

"I'm going to beat you up in a second." While the joking was precisely, the Sheriff was not nearly prepared for Stiles' response plan. John took his time choosing the potatoes as waiting for Stiles to get back took longer than expected; because god above knows what a sugar-high seventeen year old could do in a public place if he's left alone.

A rapid fire of reds and purples and greens abruptly exploded from the opposite side of the shelf- mainly aimed to perfection at the trolley. It didn't stop until the entire basket was full, the frits at the bottom well and truly destroyed along with John's faith in his fathering abilities. Stiles had emptied the container of beetroot for sale, throwing them across the aisle like water balloons

"Beet." Came the adorable little singsong voice, full of childlike glee, and John tried his best to collect the rolling beetroots that hadn't made it into the cart while juggling his chosen potatoes, vainly withholding laughter. At both the patrons who had stopped to stare, i.e. everyone in the store, and at his son's hyperactive exhaustion. Stiles peeped around the corner, a bright pink blush high on his cheeks, looking expectantly at his father. And strike him dumb if that look didn't remind John of when Stiles started eating a kilogram tub of Nutella in the shop, hiding under the lowest rack of cereal, the very same toothy grin and shining eyes adorning his face.

"Well, I know when I'm beaten."

Stiles cackled hysterically, and helped gather and return the beetroots.

"Still, man, I swear I will feed you your tail if you get a spot of blood on the seats. Dad will flip." As preposterous as the idea was, Stiles' dad flipping, he could see it happening. Derek grunted, acknowledging Stiles. That or he was in pain. Dude had a bullet in his forearm, Stiles reasoned. They hit a bump in the road- Stiles called it a small bump Derek called it a half-foot deep pothole –jarring Derek into a howl.

"You okay?"

"Do I look okay, Stiles?"

"Well, that depends on how you define-"

"Shut up. And drive."

"Don't make me sing Rhianna to you, you know I will." In a swift movement that was extremely uncalled for, Derek crowded Stiles into the corner of the Jeep and took his pulse with sweaty, shaky fingers. Stiles didn't mention the blood staining his front; didn't even notice it. He was too preoccupied with staring at Derek Hale's lips, quivering and bitten in pain, that hovered bare centimeters from his own. The contact, the clammy digits, retreated as hastily as the touch was fleetingly- satisfied with the consistently erratic heart rate.

"Ok. Drive faster, then."

"There's a song reference in there, too! There's never not… not- never, wait, fuck." He corrected himself, checking he had the negatives in balance, "There's never not not nothing. Haha."

"Please don't." Derek groaned, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.

"Please don't what?"

"Start singing that song."

"What song?"

"Hey dad! Dad! Look!" Stiles ran into the living room with an oak plank of wood on stuffed into the neck of his shirt- crossed eyes and poked out tongue scrawled with a purple marker. "I'm bored. Get it?! Board!" In some sort of tribal dance, warbling 'gobbling' turkey noises, Stiles knocked over a vase and several empty picture frames. He gravitated back to the stairs and thundered up them to his room.

"You do know that I hear everything you hear? You don't really use your headphones anymore." Stiles' dad shouted, the house reverberating with dissonant tones hanging in the air. That or John had had his ear drums imprinted, vibrating with the patterns of his son's cult-ish chants.

"Grow sideburns and I'll write a song about you!" Stiles shouted back, moments before the loud intro of Toby Turner

"Copywrite!" He yelled, even though Stiles couldn't hear him over the rich tones of the Assassins Creed Literal trailer. John didn't realize he was humming the tune when Stiles hopped down to the kitchen for several sandwiches and a two litre tub of ice cream.

"Not projected… in the air. Airborne. They… are flies? I think?"

"So the witches have an army of midges. Perfect." Boyd's snarling, magically speaking in that whisper-snarl that comes with being a werewolf, was taken over by the ominous hum of a billion tiny wings. Stiles thought that that was the moment to recite the Hobbit. To his defense, they were in a giant cavernous cave complete with fire-conjuring beings and millions of gold pieces.

"We must away 'ere break of-"

"Hey!" Erica shouted, consequentially alerting the witches nest to the wolves' location.

"What?!" Stiles, disgruntled, imitated Erica for loudness and pitch.

"Shaddap!" She elbowed him in the ribs and he went down, swearing and fending off the attack-midges simultaneously, composing a flailing deflection routine that ended with his injured side thudding the ground first. Derek made some mixture of a sigh and a growl at the snapping of bone, moving to heal the human. He laughed at Scott's midge swarm. The idiot was coated in tiny black bugs. Derek put a forceful hand on the back of his neck, stilling the trembles so the healing process could go faster.

"Cops."

"Copse."

"Do you see any trees around here, Stiles? Seriously?"

"Get down! It's the copse!" Half the crew dove for cover behind the cars. Stiles smiled, welling with accomplished even as his dad dragged him to his car, turned the key in the ignition, and disabled the parking break.

"Serial number."

"Here you go!"

"Where the fucks the bacon- I've already had breakfast- oh, you little shit."

"Cheeri-O's!"

They'd been going at it like an old married couple- and John was oh so glad the fight wasn't with him. If it were, he'd have ended it after a few disagreements. This was much more entertaining. Scott had flushed, forehead to arms and chest, meanwhile Stiles twirled a pen in a sai sword fashion and parroted Scott flippantly.

"Chaste."

"Chased."

"Chaste."

"I was CHASED, STILES! FOR SEVERAL BLOCKS! BY WERE-JAGUARS! DRESSED AS PROSTITUTES." It was entirely possible that Scott didn't know 'chased' sounded identically to 'chaste'. No one listened to Erica snorting 'what if they were prostitutes?', thanks to Stiles stealing her- no- continuing his own thunder.

"Chastely chased."

"Oh my god, Stiles," Derek growled, "…Shut up before I rip your throat out with my teeth...", red flirting on the edge of his irises. John glanced sidelong at Derek, but remained as Stiles did in face of Derek Hale's threats. He hoped he wasn't the only one with a dropped jaw when his son practically flaunted it in front of the ex-murder suspect, batting his eyelashes.

"Promises, promises!"

Judging by Derek's longing smile at Stiles' turned back throughout the rest of the morning, he got the idea that this happened a lot.

Scott gave up on recounting the traumatic experience in the Red Light district that was apparently infected with supernatural creatures. No one even knew Beacon Hills had a Red Light district. Isaac guessed it's a good way to sacrifice virgins, Alison figured that they were lonely and separated from society for too long, instead of questioning why or how Scott ended up in the Red Light district. Scott couldn't care less- he wanted revenge on the blue-skinned, green eyed monsters.

Once Derek finished telling his story, taking the big step of informing the pack on his family history, Boyd said "Cruel" without fore thinking in the vast aspect of rhyming words; because that's what all the normal humans do. Scott murmured in agreement. The cliffhanger had everyone as edgy as their gathering on the edge of a cliff overlooking the city.

Some mysteries of the universe were best left unsolved. Of those, one was how Stiles procured knitting needles and started furiously knitting gold outlines on a quilt that featured a fox and wolf curled together with beautiful swirls and colors. Brown and rust red blended with firetruck red and black at the center in the three-spiral tattoo- that just so happened to be imprinted in Derek's back.

"Crewel. Embroidery yarn." Stiles spoke with a vaguely English accent.

Scott kicked the roll of yarn off the cliff. He hadn't expected Isaac to throw himself down after it. Nor Derek, nor Erica or Boyd, and then whoops suddenly the rolling, glittery ball looked so awesome and he was over the edge as well, tackling Derek in an attempt to catch the yarn. They were wolves, damnit, not cats.

It was an intense hounding, a rough and tumble until their alpha leaped above them all and caught the last centimeter of fabric. He raced them back to Stiles' vantage point on the cliff, his camera in hand and smirking on reckless display- dropping the end he caught in the human's lap.

"Good boy." Derek swiped at his shoulder, 'accidentally' unbalancing him on the conveniently placed cliff edge, settled on all four chair legs after submitting: "I take it back, I take it back! Sorry! Please don't throw me off a cliff, holy crap, please, no, that is generally considered a mostly very not good thing to do!"

"Braid, five strings, Celtic?" Allison and Chris Argent argued over the origin of the symbol, and everyone else freaked the fuck out trying to determine whether or not it would be harmful. So far, the complex eight-knot symbol had trapped the werewolves within the concrete room.

The Sheriff had been called in, because that's just how stupid Scott is, and had to be told why exactly his son's best friend was stuck under some five year olds sharpie scribble that turned out to be the Celtic-possibly-Nordic symbol useful for caging werewolves.

Derek reasoned that they had been in there for three days and needed professional help. I.e: not a skinny idiot with a laptop.

Stiles reasoned that he owed his dad the truth. I.e: not being pressured into doing something he hated by a darkly man in his early twenties who occasionally endured flea infestations.

The Sheriff inspected for mountain ash in the walls under Derek's instruction. The other four dogpiled in the corner of the cold chamber

"Brayed." All heads turned to Stiles and yes, there was that evil mastermind face that promised some horrible pun. John didn't know a homonym to 'braid' existed… then again, he'd been wrong before. Most of his life as a police officer, actually. All those unsolved cases, missing persons, animal attacks.

"No, Stiles-" Nothing could be done. He was left to cover his ears along with the rest of the group as Stiles let out an animalistic:

"MaaAAWWwww!"

He wasn't surprised to see Boyd's ears bleeding; werewolves having supersensitive hearing, and Boyd being a little late to realize what was happening.

"Bray- a donkey's loud and harsh cry." Stiles proclaimed, and Scott literally sobbed "I fucking hate you" as he collapsed back into Isaacs arms.

"It is Capital that we-" For what seemed to be the billionth time, his son interrupted the very important briefing with another definition. He would say that he was getting sick of it. But he really, really wasn't. He wasn't, he wouldn't 'till kingdom come. Those defining words lit up the day, put a smile on his face, led the day to hilarity and happiness. Despite the inappropriateness of timing.

"What does Washington have to do with this?" He knew he was being an annoying little shit, but that was so indisputably Stiles. And there he was, sauntering along next to the alpha wolf- or so John believed- if the way he looked to Stiles with bloody comic love hearts in his eyes was exempted. Everything about the man was softened in presence of his son. Even that bristly stubble; especially the murderous glint of a stare. Stiles had outfitted a matching leather jacket to Hale, and his old dull green 'No Pogo' shirt, the usual jeans, the swept up hair.

"I swear to god." John Stilinski growled, glaring at his son. Stiles merely waved, a bare wiggle of his fingers, and slid into the Camaro next to Derek.

"I don't know which room it's in!"

"I think it's the one next to us, I smell-"

"We need a valid cause, we can't just run in there and-"

"Cawcaw! CAWCAW!" Stiles screeched from his perched on top of the white painted linen closet. Erica jumped like a corn popping, Isaac wolfed out, Scott only managed a tired eye-roll, and Derek kicked the side of the closet- toppling it over with an almighty crash. The whole hotel was definitely awake by now.

"What?" Stiles muttered, picking himself up from the wreckage, flapping his arms in either an attempt to balance, to fly, or to imitate a crow, nobody could really tell. "You needed it."

"Gimme' a buss." Undoubting that he was in no need of clarifying what that meant, John opened his arms for his son. That mischievous grin spread, a foreboding wildfire Stiles' face had a habit of lighting.

"One second." Stiles ducked and ran out the door, jingling unfamiliar keys.

Stiles didn't come home for roughly half an hour.

Stiles should call his father if he gets into trouble when out at night, but hey, no one is perfect. Not like John was in a cuddling mood or anything. Nope, nada, no way.

Roughly half an hour later, a loud honk startled John out of his armchair. He ran out to the street to find Stiles, his son, the kid who rationalized and organized were-people and shape shifters and maintained exceptional grades, in the driver's seat of his school bus.

"What's this?" John raised an eyebrow, already knowing the answer. He had to admit, it was hitting high up the charts- he'd walked right in to it. His next question would be 'how the hell did you get the keys', but he figured that Stiles at least deserved to get out what he put in.

"A bus." His son laughed and, just as he was opening his mouth to ask another question, John thought it best to cut the head off this topic before it became too hard to say no… If it came down to it, Stiles would probably be able to talk his dad into keeping the bus. What with the puppydog eyes he'd picked up from Scott.

"You can't keep it. Take it back." Doing as he was told, Stiles took the break off and rolled down the street. John obligingly ignored that Stiles turned down in the direction of the McCall household, because he was a good parent.

If only John had said Ferrari. Then he might be inclined to change his mind on stolen property.

"Hey, dad?" Stiles called down the stairs, and John would have bolted to his son's room at the nervous tone if it weren't for the fact that his son hadn't already galloped his way down and back up the staircase screaming about bendy rulers and rainbows and San Francisco.

"What?" He shouted, straining to hear the reply; as usual, Stiles wouldn't have been waiting for acknowledgment of any sort.

"How would you define not-straight."

"A curved line?" John furrowed his brows. He knew that Stiles knew just about every synonym for every word in the English dictionary. "What's this for?"

No reply. John waited, and waited. And waited for a while longer, until an hour passed, and the TV was not unpaused, and Stiles hadn't delivered his punchline. Wracking his brain, John ascended the stairs and headed to Stiles' room. To himself, he muttered "Curvy, out of line, swirly? No, spiraled?" and other variations of the 'not-straight'. His fist was barely raised to the door when it flew open, and Stiles had his head buried in his father's chest faster than magnetic opposites.

"I'm not a narrow waterway."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Dad…"

"It's okay, son." Of course, John wasn't an idiot. Hell, he'd been expecting this for a few months. Consolation seemed too offensive, and excitement too unsettling. Quiet encouragement, that was what the websites told him, so John held Stiles for a comfortable hug. "It's alright. You be who you are yeah?" He was backing away, already, Stiles having taken to the encouraging. Thank god; John had places to be, people to see. A very important person, he might add, that could develop problems if the romance escalates. Although the 'brother' would take more attention than the 'step' in 'stepbrother'… but technically wouldn't be incest.

"Yeah?" Stiles' voice was awash with relief.

"Yeah." He headed down for the door, pulling a leather jacket on as stiles removed his plaid button-up. "By the way, I've got a date with Melissa tonight."

"Melis- what? Dad!" Stiles floundered in his wake, perusing, half-dressed onto the street. He wanted confirmations and he wanted them now. A few hundred dollars were riding on this. "Melissa McCall?!" Silence means yes, so Stiles acted shocked for his father's sake. The car sped from the curb. Shouting "You sly fox!" at the retreating tailgate lights, he texted Scott and Derek in the twenty second span it took for him to bolt the door, dive onto his bed and unlatch the window.

To Scott: My dad is on the way over. He's going on a date with guess who.

From Scott: ewwww. ewew they're kissing. make them stop. can I come over. they left but I need to borrow your bleach. for my eyes.

To Derek: Eagle is out of the eeire

From Derek: what the fuck are you on about?

To Derek: That THING we discussed, about certain people being able to monitor texts?

From Derek: swooping

To Scott: Can't. Busy. Bleach: bad for eyes, man. You owe me fifty.

From Derek: locked up?

From Scott: haha. so does erica. and boyd. and derek. and alison. and chris. and coach. fuck you.

To Derek: nope

From Scott: derek is breaking the speed limit again. should i follow and see what he's up to?

To Scott: Nah, probably just expressing his alpha manliness and afsdjklkjhhvkjhxdb

From Scott: and his what?

From Scott: his what?

From Scott: stiles?

Missed call from: Scott McCall

Missed call from: Scott McCall

From Scott: STILES.

From Scott: where are you!

To Scott: So oops

From Scott: so oops 'I'm fucking your alpha' or so oops 'I forgot to mention the previous oops?'

To Scott: Both? Look, man, I'm really sorry, I should have told you.

From Scott: as long as you used protection

To Scott: That depends on how you define protection… ;]

From Scott: you know what protection is. don't need puppies running around the place.

To Scott: Uuuuum, I always dad's 'lost' shotgun in the closet. And stop fathering me.

From Scott: yes, cas

To Scott: And also: do the puppies mean more to you than me?! How about me being hormonal and, oh wait, PREGNANT?!

From Scott: it can happen

To Scott: Not a werewolf, just in case that slipped you mind.

From Scott: just you wait

To Scott: Come near me with your teeth and I'll rip your tail off.

From Scott: don't have a tail jesus stiles I thought you kept track of these things

"You're seriously holding me in a cell?!" John raged, his prison walls visibly quaking with hi outrage. Where the rest of them shouted in agreement, Stiles squealed: "You can't buy me!"

The next time they were brought food, John aimed and pegged his stale bread roll at Stiles. It shattered into tiny breadcrumbs on impact with the cell bars, peppering Stiles with dandruff-like flakes.

"I'll put you up for auction on the Black Market."

"I think you've been beaten to that…" He says, conspiringly if he weren't the one who'd gotten them trapped here in the first place. As bad as that does sound, it seriously was not his doing. Fault, sure, he'd take the blame for running after that guy who stole a woman's purse. He did feel that he had a moral obligation to help her. It was not his fault that an ambush lay in wait, with the purse-robbed woman being at the head of it all- come on, how could he conjoin such a plot?

They looked at the array of torture apparel and gulped. Stiles remembered that post about bone marrow on tumblr and how much it was worth… he didn't think anyone would take it seriously!

"Sachet." His dad insisted, pouring a chicken flavored packet of salts onto the instant noodles.

"Sashay." Stiles said, shimmying, and strutted to the door with swinging hips. He opened the door with a lustrous 'Hello Scott', leaning somewhat sexily against the frame. It opened to reveal the one and only Derek Hale. Who, not knowing that John was right there in the room with them, shoved Stiles against the wall none too gently and invaded his mouth with wet, openmouthed kisses.

That was unexpected. Stiles didn't push Derek out of his space- not even for his dad's sound of mild veneration.

"That's not Scott."

"No offence, Sheriff," His son giddily whirled to face him, Derek's face a picture of 'wasn't-me-I-swear-it-on-the-precious' syndrome, "…But no shit." Stiles bopped his father's broad brimmed hat, dragging his werewolf boyfriend directly under his father's nose in the general direction of his room, hand in hand. Belatedly, he repeated three times that he was going out, to zero level of caring. Rethinking, he yelled in the loudest voice he could "MAKE GOOD CHOICES!" and blasted Justin Timberlake into the setting sun. He's sure Derek would appreciate the mood music.

John drawled into the phone, repeating the murder just for the sake of his son- who only calmed, satisfied by deaths not caused by a rabid animal of some sort. "Ran over by a sleigh. Got it. I'll be there soon." He shrugged his jacket on, strapped the pistol to his hip, and ruffled his son's hair on the way out. He didn't miss the gun-fingers Stiles shot at him as he tried to lock the door with the car keys.

"Slay by sleigh."

Stiles was good at stalling. He'd been told that by his teachers, vast and varied, across most subjects of all years in school. He could talk ten minutes away easily, half an hour if he tried hard enough. He'd distracted shop keepers and police officers alike while his friends committed crime in the background. Taking the stage and holding the spotlight was more than a hobby of his- it was a profession, an Art, a lifesaver more often than not.

This was one of those times.

"Can't we just cut him in half?" The first witch snapped, her sisters leering. Their breath stank of rotten meat and blood. Stiles swallowed back the rising bile in his throat.

"Cut who in half?"

"You." Okay, so he wasn't reduced to begging and screaming, but Stiles was pretty terrified.

In the thicker shadows, out of reach of the campfire's flames, Stiles glimpsed three flashing reflections- too repetitive and rhythmic to be a coincidence. Three blips, one two three, what was it again… three of silver light- The signal! It was his dad's badge. Help was here. And there, a few degrees left, were the glowing red eyes of Derek and, further into the tree groove, Isaac's vibrant blues. Stiles relaxed, mentally, and with limited control over his rambling mouth, blurted out:

"The tree?" The witches looked confoundedly at each other when he said this; as witches, surely they knew what a Yew tree was.

"No, silly boy, you."

"The sheep?!" He needn't point out the sacrificial lamb, decomposing entrails spread in a broad and intricate circular language on the bed of dead leaves. The stink of that thing alone was enough.

"YOU!" They clamored together, angry. Stiles swore he heard his dad's chuckle when the head-witch put a broadsword to his stomach. What kind of a dad was entertained by his son, bound and about to be disembowel? They were having a serious talk about athics once they got home. If they got home… if the witches don't go for the kill; they'd clearly had enough of him, given up on their raving non-virgin sacrifice. Stiles hoped the witches knew he wasn't a virgin. It'd be awkward if they did sacrifice him- only to have nothing happen.

How could witches tell a person was a virgin, anyway? Watch their life through crystal balls, or in a giant cauldron? Get the 'virgin' shivers, a sixth sense of detecting virginity? Smell them? He wouldn't put that one past them. Fucking witches.

In all the time it took for the witch the raise the sword, arced above her head by her veiny, flaked, clawed hands, he didn't break a sweat. Derek was prowling silently out of the bushes, basically on top of the three when he wheezed "Oh, me! Right!". If Derek splattered a little too much blood on Stiles' pants, he didn't complain. John's only moaned that he'd have to wash the stain out. It was worth it, to laugh with the pack among the dead, vaporizing bodies of the cranky old women.

The school's alarm system brought back online was selectively the foremost of the few things Stiles noticed as he and Scott bolted out of the big blue doors. Stiles jumped the steps with Scott- on his way down, his friend transitioned into a werewolf. Stiles, on the other hand, landed gracefully on a certain alpha's back- literally riding Derek Hale off of school grounds. What timing, He was dimly aware of Isaac, Boyd, and Erica bounding alongside Scott; just as decidedly oblivious to their howling in amusement. Nothing could have been funnier when Derek retook human form and dumped Stiles on a tree root somewhere in the middle of the preserve. He shifted shapes again without a word and cantered into the night.

"We made it!" Stiles whooped to the wolf, to the four others around him, and to the clear night sky.

"Phew." Scott blew some hair out of his eyes, laughing breathlessly in his headcount. Stiles was one step ahead of him.

"No... I think we all did."

It wasn't picked up on. Stupid dog-brains. Stiles missed his dad.

There was blood everywhere.

When John says everywhere, he didn't mean the glistening red pooling beneath the deathly pale skin of his son's body, nor did he mean the smatterings on the walls- no, he meant there was blood on literally every surface of the room.

"Hold on." He slapped his son's cheeks gently, cradled Stiles as though he were a newborn instead of the polar opposite. It was a struggle to keep those eyes open, focused, for so long- they'd been holding on for a good length of time. Long enough for any ordinary person to bleed out.

"Hah. I get it." Stiles exhaled, a whimper and a whisper staggering the simple four words. He was fading fast, heartbeat loosing strength as someone hacked at the lock on the steel door with bolt cutters. It reverberated through Stiles' body; hiding the determined thumping of his heart in metal-on-metal clangs. John pulled his son's limp body closer to get his body of the ground and cushion him from vibrations.

"Get what?"

"I'm holed. Get it?" John almost cried then and there, in the gigantic fox trap, holding his dying boy. Stiles' breath grew ragged and pained. "Dad? Huh?" There were new tears streaking, retracing tracks down Stiles' face.

"I get it, Stiles." He shot a watery smile to Stiles, hoping what he got in return was a smile- not a grimace –for his own eyes blurred with uncontrollable tears. "I get it. You win." Stiles' eyes drooped, shut, John let them. He let Stiles miss how Derek arrived in a flurry audible through the reinforced door, and proceed to rip and tear his way through said door to get to Stiles. He gave Stiles up to Derek and did his job- keeping the rest back, letting the pack do their work first. When Derek turned to him, asked him for permission to bite, John didn't need to see his son's snow white pallor; didn't need to take the necessary breath for saying 'yes'.

They all visited in hospital- the whole pack, and Lydia and Jackson and Danny. His dad was constantly on the move between his job and being at the hospital.

The bite hadn't happened- Stiles awoke to Derek gnawing on his arm with cautious consideration, and protested vehemently, with all his barely-conscious might to 'get a fucking doctor in here right now I swear to god, Derek, I'm not letting you make me your literal bitch'.

On one particularly cold night, uncharacteristic for the later summer climate, Stiles woke to something furry under his hand, foot, and neck. The great, slumbering body of a wolf hunched protectively on the tiny hospital cot. A tail under his neck, front paws to feet, Derek's relaxing movement of lungs filling with and expelling air lulling his still-weak heart. Stiles petted the soft fur presented to him- Derek's neck and chest growing thick with hairs that combined wiry and silken to create a divine sensation. His subconscious beckoned; having no qualms with replacing his pillow with Derek.

On the way back under, thanks to his giant canine cuddle-toy, Stiles understood the lights playing behind his eyes, deeply ingrained on the inky maroon, and they filled with the beautiful, beckoning figure of Derek Hale. Every night, every day dream, and every time he hit his head too hard against his desk in anguish, or against his locker when he opened it too quickly. Derek- Derek was everywhere. And Stiles didn't mind all that much, much less than that one time with the wolfsbane bullet. An omnipresent Derek beat creeper-stalker Derek, and dead Derek for that matter, any day.

"Well?"

"Wha- you're not kidding?"

"No?"

"No, you're not kidding? Or no, you're not kidding?" John tilted his head, Stiles' impossibly fast rambles losing him, "Dad, this isn't rocket science, either you're kidding or you're not."

"I'm not kidding!" Stiles praised the lord and mouthed 'thank you' to the heavens- all in good humor –John lightly guiding his son back down to earth with a throw rug slap to the face.

"Stiles…" Stiles paused, smirked, outright guffawed, and said in one whole breath, "…is an arrangement of steps designed to allow humans over fences or walls, keeping animals out."

John swore he heard Derek Hale grunting with laughter on his front lawn.


End file.
